Seven

*Jaigin*

The night was in no way peaceful. Dylin, drunk from his celebratory wine, bashed and beat the boy for hours. I peaked out of my sleeping area to see Dylin's face illuminated by the torchlight, a malicious grin across his face. Each blow of his sword or his hand sent the boy into another round of silent screams.

The boy's face, on the other hand, was littered with cuts and bright red blood. A bruise was forming on his cheek, a fleshy mess where his nose was. It made me sick to look at him.

When dawn arrived Dylin finally gave into his fatigue, dropping his sword and drunkenly stumbling to where the others were sleeping. My place was the rock face near the boy, to make sure he didn't try to escape.

I didn't see how he could with a broken leg, but it was dangerous to question Dylin.

A few hours' sleep was all I got before faint sobs awoke me. The boy didn't see me as I turned over to look at him; heaving for air, his eyes squeezed shut with tears rolling down his cheeks. He feebly tried to free his hands but failed; the others had tied him too tightly. A scream of frustration followed.

The sense of guilt that filled me was too much. I jumped down and quietly walked over to him. He recoiled back, squirming up against the wall. I could tell he didn't trust me, but that didn't matter.

The jug of water Wintrin used the day before was broken into multiple fragments, smashed by Dylin in his rage. Luckily there was still a piece large enough to hold some water, so I crept down to the nearby underground lake and filled it. The boy started panicking when I returned.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I whispered, ripping a piece of my tunic off and dipping it in the water. I ignored the boy's flinching as I gently rubbed it against his face, clearing away the multiple layers of dry blood. "I'm not like them."

He remained apprehensive as I cleaned his wounds, refusing to move or cry. When I had removed the excess blood I noticed exactly how many cuts Dylin had made. One had narrowly missed blinding him, slicing the skin of his eyelid. The other eye was faintly bruised, but both showed how little sleep he'd gotten.

Had we still been in the refugee camp, Dylin would've been executed for this.

"Do you feel any better?" I lowered my voice so it was barely audible. "What was it they called you? Wesley?" I rang out the cloth and tried to wipe the blood off his silver badge. It had been stepped on by Jet at some point, a large dent now in the centre. "I hate my name. It meant 'loyal warrior' in my community. Great name for the boy who always spent his weekends in the library."

I looked up. The boy was apparently listening; I thought I saw sympathy in his face. "Before he died my father always hoped I would put down my studies and train to fight in the war. I tried. I legitimately tried, but I was not designed for the battlefield. I had to train in a real battle alongside my father. He died instantly with an arrow to the brain."

Wesley's shoulders sagged; I assumed he meant he felt sorry for me. "It's alright. My mother raised me to be a studious young man instead of the blood-thirsty warrior Father envisioned me as. You know, when I was picked up by Dylin, I heard him admit he only wanted someone smart to use as a hostage in times of crisis. Fortunately I never was, but I'm sorry he's chosen you instead."

A shout of rage erupted from where Dylin slept. He stumbled out of the rocks, moaning and holding his head tenderly. "Jaigin! Get me some more!"

"More what?" I asked nervously.

He picked up a small rock and aimed it at me. "More wine, you useless youth! My head is drained and I must have energy for the day."

Scared of what he might throw next, I scurried over to where we'd hidden our supplies. As expected, Dylin had insisted we also steal plenty of wine after bringing Wesley here, so he had multiple bottles to choose from.

I grabbed the nearest one and brought it to him. "I suggest you go lightly on this."

He'd gulped a third of the bottle before answering me. "Listen to you. As if you know anything in that head of yours about this wonderful liquid!"

Wesley and I shared aside glances. There was no telling what would happen once Dylin finished his morning drink. I decided to return to my sleeping corner and observe his actions, watching the fear in Wesley's eyes return.

Within seconds Dylin had drowned his first bottle of the day and grinned, stumbling to pick up his sword. "Well why don't we start with something simple?" He brought the weapon up and sliced into Welsey's shirt. It must've touched his skin, for he flinched.

"Argh, that's not fun," Dylin sniffed. He frowned and studied Wesley for a moment. "Why don't we try this?"

His grabbed the hilt of the sword and swung it, knocking Wesley to the ground. It had apparently knocked him out instantly; he lay motionless on the cave floor while Dylin groaned. "Fine. I'll t-try later.."

Dylin fell backwards and emptied his stomach behind a nearby boulder, the awful noises making me frown in disgust. In this position I did not consider him a leader, but instead a drunkard rebel. He continued retching, spluttering and spitting out what was left of his stomach. He waved his sword around carelessly, the silver blade colliding with a shrill screech on the rock walls.

I turned my gaze back to Wesley, in his helpless, bleeding form. "May mercy be shown upon you."